


sans peur et sans reproche

by TrulyCertain



Series: Shield Raised [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (according to the codices a lot of marchers are jerks about this), Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, The Chantry (Dragon Age), shit parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: Adelaide knows the rumours about the Trevelyan boy. Half of Ostwick does, it seems. But his mother is a woman she takes tea with, and who seems a fine enough sort. Besides, the rumours… Perhaps she should be scandalised, but all she can think is that he sounds like a troubled young man. Unhappy.An origin story for the Inquisitor.





	sans peur et sans reproche

## twelve.

“What is it?” he asks his mother, as he looks at the templars. They’re coming closer. He has inside of a minute, maybe two. “Was it the books? The clothes, or - I promise, I can change - “

“_Galahad_,” she sighs, resting a hand on his head. “This is something all Trevelyans must learn. We must all serve. It’ll only be a few months.”

There’s something in her face, and in her voice. She’s not telling him everything. He knows what it is. It’s that he won’t meet with any of the girls they’ve tried to arrange matches with, won’t go to the parties.

“Mum, please, please, I can’t…”

Her hand is on his head, but she won’t look at him. The templars are nearly here. It feels like he’s drowning.

* * *

## fourteen.

She’s in the yard, and Keran Stipe is harassing her, crowding her into a corner. Something about not being able to wear plate armour with tits. She’ll be a sister, he says. Look pretty and have a mouth perfect for the Chant. Perfect for other things, too.

She thinks it’s the “other things” line that did it. Someone’s grabbing him, turning him, and very efficiently breaking his nose for him.

When Stipe runs, he leaves the new kid, the Trevelyan boy, who shakes a hand, grimacing, and then looks at her warily. He’s one of the initiates, isn’t he? She noticed him from the start: quiet and too tall, with too much hair, big blue eyes and a permanent expression like life had kicked him in the balls. Well, most of the time, until he makes some comment under his breath that has her sniggering.

“Damn,” she says. “Beat me to it.”

He grins. “Sorry. Your turn next time?”

She grins back. Kind of hard not to. “Yeah, next time.” He’s turning to go, but she says, “You know when you said Brother Bertram had a face like a horse’s arse?”

He pauses, turns back to her. “He… wasn’t pleased.”

She grimaces dramatically and says, “Yeah, but now I can’t… not-see it. It really ruins afternoon scripture. Especially when he squints and talks about how ‘the Maker watches over us all.’”

He laughs, brushing his hand through his hair and getting it out of his face. He looks like someone different when he does that. “I’ve always wondered about that. What if someone’s in the bath?”

She’s wondered that too, and she takes a risk. “Gal, right?”

He looks a bit nervous. Hesitates. “Actually, it’s - “ Shakes his head. “Gal’s good.” He reaches out a hand, formal like a proper noble. It’s not the one with knuckles that are starting to bruise.

“Erren,” she says, and shakes it.

She kisses him a few months later, because he’s the only other person in this Chantry that’s got a sense of humour, and he’s kind, and all right, maybe the too-long hair and the sad blue eyes are kind of pretty. Also, they’ve got maybe ten minutes until the sisters come back, and she wants to find out if she’s in with a chance.

She feels him freeze. She mentally kicks herself and pulls back, because she thinks she knows why.

He looks at her all surprised - and then it settles and he looks so, so sad. “I’m sorry. I can’t…”

She sighs, remembering all those rumours. Maybe she should have listened. “Is it not me, or is it not girls in general?”

He goes wide-eyed, like he’s been caught out. She can see his cheeks going pink, even in the shadows. “It’s… not girls. Or it’d be you, because you’re…” He put his hand on his forehead, winces. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m sorry. For, um, attacking you. With my face.”

And then he starts trying to say that no, he’s sorry, and she starts saying sod that and trying to apologise again, and by the time the sisters arrive they’re still having an argument about it. But they’re friends.

* * *

## fifteen.

When she gets accepted for templar training, she nearly starts jumping up and down in front of them, going, _Suck it, Stipe_. But that wouldn’t be very full of templar discipline. So she walks calmly away and only does a bit of a dance when she’s outside. Then she goes to find Gal.

It takes a while.

He’s near the rear courtyard, sitting behind the shed full of gardening blades, leaning his back on the brick. She nearly didn’t see him, and when she did, it took her a second to recognise him. She never thought she’d miss all that stupid fluffy hair, but… she does. It’s all gone, just down to stubble, and it’s uneven, like the cut was rough. There’s a cut on his cheek, and his knuckles look bruised again. And his eyes… He looks like the world’s just ended.

She kneels down next to him. “Gal?”

He won’t, or he can’t, look at her.

“Gal, what the fuck happened?”

He lifts his hand like he’s going to touch his head. Takes it away again. Then he says, “They accepted me for templar training.”

* * *

## sixteen.

“It was an abomination,” Haden says.

“She had no _choice_!” Trevelyan shouts. “If you hadn’t - She thought she was going to _die!_”

Trevelyan’s a decent lad, bright and studious even if he runs at the mouth, but he’s barely past being an initiate, and he’s wrong. “There was no choice. She failed her Harrowing. You can’t afford to think this way. Settle _down_, boy.”

“Settle down?” The boy looks disgusted. “How could you - “

“I am a templar,” Haden explains, keeping his voice calm. It should be an explanation. It’s enough.

“Is that what we are? She was fifteen, and if she hadn’t had to… She should never have walked into that room. You’re a fucking murderer! All of you are!”

And Trevelyan is a good lad, but that’s when Haden backhands him.

“I am your superior officer,” he says. “And you will not speak of your order that way.”

Trevelyan doesn’t stagger, but it’s close. Just stares at him and says quietly, “I thought you might understand.” 

He’d forgotten how strong the boy was. Trevelyan breaks his nose.

The next day, there is discipline, and then Trevelyan is transferred to another lieutenant for training.

They station him in a Circle for four months, and Gal thinks it’s punishment. They can’t seem to prove otherwise. He misses sunlight and rain so badly they might as well have put him in solitary. He counts off the days on a piece of parchment in his dormitory. They put him on the simplest duty, stick him in the library. He tries not to get caught reading the books, but they have a decent history section. He can’t always help it.

The worst thing is when he reaches out to help an apprentice pick up her books and she backs away from him, wide-eyed and scared. It doesn’t happen once. It happens too many times. Even the ones twice his age hide it better, but still watch him out of the corners of their eyes. He feels sick when he puts the armour on in the morning.

But not all of them do. Then there’s an apprentice who, instead of just nodding or ignoring him, stops. Looks him up and down. Grins. “Come here often?”

The apprentice is an elf called Koris, and he’s seventeen. And he knows more dirty jokes than Erren did, which is bloody impressive. They make each other laugh, and the flirting is a joke, not something that really matters. Gal’s got two months in the Circle, he’s not interested in someone he’ll have to leave, and anyway, Koris is just a friend. That’s all he wants. It’s simple.

And then there’s the last night, where the library is nearly abandoned, only a couple of enchanters in there, and his shift is all but finished. Koris sneaks down and sits with him, and he’s brought wine.

Gal looks at him in surprise. “Where’d you find that?”

Koris grins. “Senior Enchanter Tovey’s special supply.” He waves it. “Now come on, I know there are mugs round here, you lot have to at least drink water…”

They’re a couple of mugs in - they’ve sat down on one of the rugs behind some bookshelves, far from the enchanters and decently out of sight, and has the room always been this warm - when Koris asks him a question. He answers, “Just a girl, and she didn’t… We weren’t.” He takes a glug from the mug so he won’t have to talk.

Koris is for once in his life silent. Gal looks to his side and finds Koris is staring at him. He shrinks, wondering what he’s said wrong.

Koris says, after a moment, “You’ve really never kissed a bloke before?”

Gal shrugs. “Not like I didn’t want to. It just didn’t… happen.”

Koris mutters something under his breath that sounds like _They’re missing a trick_, and then leans across, turning Gal to face him. His hands stay, touching Gal’s jaw, and he gives him a questioning look.

Gal thinks he might nod, or maybe he’s just too surprised to say anything. Koris’ mouth closes over his, and it’s… different. Not bad-different. By the time Koris is nipping at his bottom lip, gentle and not even a bite, he’s shifted closer and he’s making a noise that will probably embarrass him for the rest of his life.

Koris pulls away, and whatever Gal looks like, it makes him laugh.

“…_Oh_,” Gal says, more of a breath.

Koris is still a bit smug. Looks good on him. “That really was your first, wasn’t it?”

Gal tries to get his thoughts back. Words. Words would be good. “Can we, er… Can we try that again?”

He leaves for the chantry the next day, accompanied by two of his superiors, trying not to yawn. A night of necking in a supplies cupboard didn’t allow for much sleep.

He passes Koris on the way, who gives him that pleased grin, and waves when the templars aren’t looking.

He feels himself turning pink, but he smiles back. It’s wide and probably far too obvious. He doesn’t care.

* * *

## seventeen.

They’re lying next to each other in the dark, and they probably shouldn’t be. Gal will have to head back to another room soon, and pretend they haven’t just been doing things that would make the Knight-Lieutenants want to murder.

He doesn’t much want to, he thinks as he gets his breath back. Some stupid part of his mind wants to shout to the world that he’s with Lucas, who’s tall and green-eyed, and handsome to the point where for a while even Erren had a thing for him, with a kind smile and a secret love for Fereldan art. It was how they met. Too much reading when they should’ve been studying the Chant. 

Gal would think this odd pride was the afterglow, but he feels it a lot. Even when they’re just sparring, or eating lunch and throwing peas at the back of Erren’s head.

He feels Lucas take his hand, and then hears him say, “I think I love you.”

Gal shifts to look at him, wishing he could see his face. “I think I love you, too.” And he wraps his fingers around Lucas’ and holds tight.

* * *

## eighteen.

They get a few months. Gal turns eighteen, and five months later Lucas’ father dies. He’s from one of the major Kirkwall families, so Gal knows how this will go.

Lucas’ family ask for his return. He’ll be escorted home in a week, they say. The Mardens have political ties and donate regularly and generously to the Chantry, so there’s barely any protest.

Lucas tells him when they get a few minutes alone, looking like he’s about to cry. “I have to go,” he says, hoarse. “And there’s… there’s a girl… I’ve been promised to her since I was ten…”

Gal knows how this will go. “It’s all right.”

Lucas looks at him, wide-eyed and slightly desperate. “I could… write letters.”

But he won’t. Gal sighs, touching Lucas’ face, stroking his cheek. “It’s all right. I promise. It’s been amazing.” And he leans across to kiss him, holding tight.

It’s bad, but it’s not the end of the world. The next few months pass slowly and Erren teases him about moping all over her glyph sheets, but he can live. Then they tell him.

“We’ve held you back long enough,” Knight-Lieutenant Carrow says. “You’ve made great strides these past few years, and there is potential in you, when you can find your discipline. We’re putting you in for your vows.”

Gal freezes, trying not to gulp in air. They must know. If they’re putting him on the lyrium, then they’ve abandoned any thought of him heading home. Of him being a Trevelyan again. Maybe his family have signed off on this. Either way, he’ll be in Chantries, watching mages die, for the rest of his life. “I… see. When?”

“We like to do it after a birthday. There are two months until you turn nineteen, yes?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Sometime after that, then. You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you.”

He spends the walk to his room trying not to shake. He ends up slumping to sit on his bed, his head in his hands. “_Fuck_.”

For the next week, in whatever spare time he can find, he’s shoving things he’ll want to keep under his bed. There isn’t much: a few extra clothes that aren’t Chantry robes, a pair of socks Erren made him for his seventeenth that still fit and are his favourite colour, the copy of _Five Days in Val Royeaux_ that Lucas got him.

It was always a background plan, a spare thought for if things got really bad. He knew he’d have to do it someday, but not yet. Not yet.

He forges a letter - he’s been able to copy his mother’s handwriting since he was eight - and waits until it’s dry, then goes to see the Knight-Commander. His heart is in his throat, and half of him thinks that he’ll be dragged off. Caned, or locked up.

Commander Verin doesn’t even ask for proof. “Yes, she told me she was planning something of the sort.” Gal reels at that, silent, before Verin continues, “You said you’re meeting them at Waterley?”

“Waterley,” Gal confirms, with a nod.

“Go and pack your things.”

He goes to see Erren one last time. She squints at him. “You’re going, _now?_ Is this about Lucas? Or is this some weird noble thing?”

He laughs. “No weird nobles. They were going to put me through my vows.”

“_Shit_,” she says, wide-eyed.

“Exactly.” He tries to smile.

He hears her chair scrape, and then she hugs him, so tightly it hurts a little. “Andraste’s arse. I remember when I could’ve got my arms round you completely. What are they _feeding _you?”

Now he’s grinning at her. “The same thing they’re feeding you. Gruel.”

“And this is the intellect that deceived the Knight-Commander. Fuck off with you, before I start trying to drag you back.”

He can’t help it; he’s still smiling. “Thank you. For everything.”

The ship’s the most ramshackle one he’s ever seen, and the sailors glare at him in confusion when he grins to himself for most of the journey, leaning out to look at the sea. He doesn’t care.

Free.

* * *

## nineteen.

It’s been a while since he escaped, and the idea’s been nagging at him. He remembers his father reading tales of Avvar warriors covered in war paint and ink. Remembers Knight-Lieutenant Haden and _The best enemy’s one you don’t ever have to fight. Scare the shit out of ‘em and make ‘em run._

He thinks of the design he kept scribbling on spare pieces of parchment in absentminded moments. He thinks of the ink he sees on the bodies of mercenaries, of soldiers.

He makes his decision.

Eline doesn’t recognise her son.

He barely speaks for two months after he returns. After receiving word that the Chantry had allowed him to leave, with her permission - what permission was this? - she and Harald had called for a search. The men found him in a small village only a few miles out from Ostwick. He’d been cutting wood for money, and she’s told he seemed quite happy. He came without a fight, they said. Why would he ever have fought?

She remembers running to the doors as they were opened, and pausing. Rising on her toes to take his face in her hands, half-expecting them to come away black with ink, and the way he looked at her in surprise.

“Maker,” she said, trying to keep back the tears, “what have you doneto yourself?”

He stiffened, swallowed and then stepped back from her touch, looking away. “Mother.”

Harald glared at her, and then looked to his son. “Galahad.”

He looked to his father, something like cautious hope in his eyes. “Father.”

Harald reached out a hand, and after a moment, Galahad shook it.

Since then, there have been few words. She sees him around the grounds, sometimes. She always takes a moment to remember. There are echoes of her boy - his eyes, and the long hair, though he’s roughly shaven nearly half of it - but they’re offset by the strangeness of this… man. The height, unusual even by most standards, and how broad he is. The unshaven scruff, and the strange ink all over his face. It’s almost frightening. And then she sees the sadness, too, even behind the tattoos and the hair. She wonders how she can repair this.

One day, Harald is packing things into a bag when she returns from lunch with friends.

“What are you…?” she asks.

He smiles. “Taking him fishing.”

She watches him leave the room, her heart in her throat. Not even an invitation.

She tells Galahad, after they return grinning and covered in brine, “We’re to hold a ball. For your return.” There will need to be notifications, invitations. He was never promised to anyone, but there’s still time…

She doesn’t know why his face falls, or why his voice is so quiet. “I see.”

She catches sight of him through a window one day, and it’s a brief thing. He’s in the grounds, on one of the horses, and it’s galloping. He laughs, unabashed and joyous, and aside from those tattoos, and the depth of the sound - another reminder that her son is a man now, not the boy she gifted to the Chantry - he could almost be twelve again.

It’s not a bad life, Gal reasons. Perhaps in a year he’ll leave, but for now, he reacquaints himself with his parents. Harald is blunt, good-natured, quick to laugh. He drinks like a fish, and Gal doesn’t even try to match him. He’s kind, and he has a love for stories. He likes things that make sense, where the end is happy. Eline is quieter, and smiles more but laughs less. She takes him through aspects of political history the Chantry missed - ones that aren’t about Drakon and apostates, thank fuck - and he remembers her sitting by his bedside, telling him stories. (He remembers her telling him it was all right. Only for a few months. Another story. Sometimes he can’t look at her. He doesn’t let it sting, or it’ll never stop. Too much to do.)

The parties are once every two or three months. Sometimes he can escape. (Illness. More history to learn. A pressing appointment.) Sometimes he can’t. Sometimes there are benefits.

* * *

## twenty.

Jon’s heard stories about the youngest Trevelyan. Quiet, and rarely attending his parents’ parties, they say. Awkward, for a noble, but friendly enough, most nights. (And there are the other stories, too. Stories he’s tattooed and wild, making himself look like a beast or barbarian. Rumours Jon’s heard from one or two men in taverns. _Good laugh. Great lay._)

Jon’s making his way across the hall, towards the drinks, when he hears someone saying, “The Chantry must have trained you well.”

Jon turns, and next to two elderly women is someone tall and broad enough to be a soldier. The hair is long, but not in the carefully-groomed noble sense. Tattoos curve on his skin.

Jon wonders whether he should be scared of such an appearance. In fact, he thinks he rather… likes it.

“You stand like a templar,” one of them continues.

Galahad - for this must be Galahad - half-smiles. It’s awkward, the slightest bit uncomfortable. “I’ve been told it’s more of a slouch.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. He still sounds like a noble.

Jon picks up a glass of wine. Something makes him take another one, too, and he makes his quiet way over to Trevelyan as the women are preparing more questions. “Wine, ser?”

Galahad takes it, giving him a thankful look. It’s warm, and his smile this time is a truer one. “I’d thank you, if I knew your name.” His eyes are on Jon in a kind, interested sort of way.

Jon swallows, quite aware that he’s probably flushing. Galahad really is _very _tall. “Jon Ramsey.”

Something crosses Galahad’s face - surprise, and he looks like he might be flattered - then he’s back to that casual interest. “Your father’s one of my mother’s friends, isn’t he?” He adds hastily, “I’m, er. Lord Trevelyan.” He sighs, winces. “Gal.”

Jon tries not to laugh, and Galahad looks at him like they’re sharing a joke. “He is,” Jon says. “And I knew. Perhaps we should… get to know each other better?”

That surprise, quickly hidden, and Galahad just watches him for a moment. Then he smiles, wide and somewhat wry, and the look in his eyes makes Jon’s throat drier. “I’d like that.”

* * *

## twenty-one.

Adelaide knows the rumours about the Trevelyan boy. Half of Ostwick does, it seems. But his mother is a woman she takes tea with, and who seems a fine enough sort. Besides, the rumours… Perhaps she should be scandalised, but all she can think is that he sounds like a troubled young man. Unhappy.

And on top of all that, the parties the Trevelyans throw are fabulous. She finds herself wandering through halls, marvelling at so many different kinds of opulence. It almost distracts her, until she notices that the young Trevelyan is absent. Others have seen him skulking in corners, sometimes with a book; sometimes in other rooms. It’s rare for him to be gone completely.

She’s wandering privywards, glad that the Trevelyans have several and half-humming along to the music from the hall, when she hears a low laugh, the sound of voices. A door is ajar, and she can’t help looking through the gap.

It’s a small study adjoining stairs, a fire burning in the hearth. She catches the tail-end of a sentence. “I’ve always liked this one.”

It’s the Trevelyan boy, and he’s with… ah, yes, the Corringdons’ son. Twenty-two and soon to be wed; an arranged match, she hears. “It’s one of my favourites,” the young Corringdon says.

Trevelyan smiles, his teeth bright against those hideous tattoos, and takes Corringdon’s hands. Pulls him closer, putting his hands around his waist in a mockery of a dance. They sway together, and Trevelyan says, low and into Corringdon’s ear, “All right, I’ve never been the best dancer.”

Corringdon pulls back to respond, “I’m betting there are other things you’re good at.”

Trevelyan kisses him and then says quietly, “Yes. There are.”

Adelaide hastily moves away from the door, grimacing, having seen quite enough. Perhaps some rumours have a basis in fact.

“Look at the mess with the Coulters. You’re not even _trying_ to be subtle,” Eline says. “At this rate you’ll never be married.”

Galahad looks back at her, his back straight and his face unashamed. “Perhaps I don’t want to be subtle.”

Harald sighs. “You don’t have to… There will be someone amenable to some sort of deal. All we ask is… consider our reputation. This phase is…”

Galahad’s jaw clenches. “A long ‘phase.’” He looks back to Eline. “Perhaps I don’t want to be married.” He moves to leave.

It’s that which does it. After all the work, the sacrifices, the bloody embarrassment… She says quietly, “You might be right.” When he turns, frowns at her, she says, “About marriage. Who would want you?”

His chin rises as though he’s been slapped, his eyes widening. And then he’s turning and marching out of her office.

She regrets it nearly the moment she says it. “Galahad!” she calls. She exits her chair when he doesn’t return. _“Galahad!”_ she tries, standing at the doorway.

He doesn’t turn. He simply continues walking, his head high and his shoulders proud. Looking, terribly, like a true Trevelyan for the first time in months.

* * *

## twenty-two.

There’s another Chantry. There’s always another Chantry.

He’s old enough to protest, now, but he goes to appease them. He makes it two months before he walks out, not even pretending there are excuses. He puts on his favourite pair of socks before he goes, the ones he’s patched enough times that they’re probably more like five different pairs, and writes Erren a letter.

* * *

## twenty-three.

He has enough money to travel, at least for a while. There are towns and there are jobs, and there are sometimes men. It’s a good life. There’s less call to deal with Orlesians, at least. His family write, sometimes, when they get wind of where he is. He pockets the letters without reading them, and doesn’t reply to any of them.

* * *

## twenty-seven.

Erren yawns, and her armour clanks as she stretches. “You could always try and make it up with them.”

Gal sighs, taking a bite of his sandwich and wincing. Notes not to use Kirkwall cheese in future. “That assumes they’d listen. Or change.”

She shrugs, prompting more clanking. “They might. They’ve been writing you enough. That sounds like begging to me.”

That night, he takes the letters out of his bag. Reads them all, first to last. Apologies. Pleas. Promises.

He starts to write one of his own.

* * *

## twenty-nine.

_A Trevelyan must be at the Conclave_, they said. _Two of your cousins are there. We can’t have our branch of the family neglecting his duties._

He tries, because he always tries. Grits his teeth and goes.

And then everything turns green, and his world changes forever.

_Herald_, they’re calling him, and there’s a mark on his hand he knows nothing about, and he walks into the Redcliffe Chantry, preparing for a trap -

But you probably know that story. It’s been told enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2017, but apparently I never got round to posting it here? Crikey. Anyhow... "Eline Trevelyan's A+ Parenting" is going to end up becoming a tag on my blog, at this rate. The title's taken from an old motto of a French knight: "Without fear and without reproach." It may be "Orlesian," but I think Gal tried to keep those principles close to heart.


End file.
